


In Confidence

by Winterstar



Series: The Depths [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 16:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3943483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>second in the series dealing with infidelity</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Confidence

It feels like he’s breaking down and healing at the same time. His face transforms from spectacular purples and blues with hints of crimson to lingering greens touched with yellow. As the swelling decreases and the doctors confirm his eye is uninjured, his body mends itself. He checks out how he looks, his mirror in the bathroom reflecting a lie. Pieces flake away as he degrades and deteriorates. He eases back into the shell of Neal Caffrey, the one he is supposed to be, the one the outside world knows. He slides on Bryon’s jacket, and feels the shroud of his persona cover him like a long loved old sweater, or handmade blanket. 

He nods, he can do this. He can ignore the words that were spoken to him that echoed in the chamber of the indoor pool. The ricochet of their power slammed into him, caused him to lose his balance until he plunged into the depths and knocked his face on the bottom of the pool. He’d nearly died. It is strange how he can be shot thousands of miles from home and only suffer a minor wound but a few blocks from his apartment, words with the force of a hurricane gale manage to almost kill him. Only Peter’s fast action, only Peter’s air pushed into his lungs saved him. He wishes he could remember the press of Peter’s lips on his mouth. He cannot.

All he recalls is the brunt of the words, the words that physically moved him, that shoved him off the diving board and thrust him into a new reality, a reality he needed to pretend did not exist. He wished they’d never planned to swim together three days a week while Peter was working at the Cave, he wished he’d never confessed to Peter why he needed to find some truths out about his father. He wished many things.

Now, he wishes he didn’t know. 

He wishes Peter never said a word.

He wishes Peter could take back the words, I love you. They will wreck him, Neal already knows this, and he knows it heart and soul. No one should love him. Everyone who loves him disappears.

His hand suffers a tremor as he picks up his wallet and ID cards. He has to put up the façade. It shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. It always will be. With Peter’s words exploding in his head he has to be Neal Caffrey. He can do this, like any other con. He has to do it. 

He does it. He saves a widow, takes his mind off of his heart and the ache so willing to slowly consume him from inside out, and diverts his attention to the blonde beauty he can hold and kiss and want. It is all over too fast and when a gun is pointed at his face, he thinks for only an infinitesimal second how much better it would be if he was blown away to the winds. The fighter in him comes out and makes the right play, saves him again, as he always has, in his childhood, in his teenaged years, during the con and most importantly when he was in prison. 

When he reads the words that set Peter free from the stacks of the Cave, he’s charming and bright and happy. He removes himself to speak with Sara because she is safe and her pain reflects his pain. He keeps his glances, his wayward focus from finding Peter, from watching as Peter lets a hand drift down Elizabeth’s side and touch the curve of her hips. It hitches deep in his gut, causes a ball of tension to twist inside of him and he has to look away. He has to get away.

He is lost later that night, lost in grief and mourning. He finds himself in others’ hands as they try to console him and offer him some solace. He curls in a ball, fully dressed in his bed, and cries. There is no one to hold him, no one to wrap arms around him; there is no one to understand the death of his surrogate mother.

They do what is needed, and what should be done for the bereaved. Flowers, and special cards and sorrowful looks are exchanged, but Neal has lost everything and everyone and he wants nothing so much as a touch of peace and quiet. He only wants to forget who he is, or who he isn’t. He doesn’t know anymore, since he was never anyone at all.

Finally, he finds his form and straightens his shoulders and agrees when Peter promises to search for whoever took Ellen out of his life. He notices the lines in Peter’s face, the stress of what has happened to Neal ages him. It is the first glimpse he gets that Peter is still affected by his outburst in the pool. It is the first time Neal realizes the love did not drown in the same pool.

Neal stays away from Peter, tries not to crowd him, and walks a certain pace away from him when they speak, when they challenge one another. Neal discovers FBI agents are con men as well, since Peter delivers an astounding performance of distance and nonchalance around Neal. It hurts Neal as if he’s been punched in the solar plexus but he takes it as a dare. After all, he is the confidence man, not Peter.

So he wines and dines and loves and shows off in front of Peter. There are women and some men leaving his loft apartment when Peter comes to collect him in the morning. Peter bites back his words, because he can do nothing to stop Neal’s spiral into the depths of love’s depravity. He cannot stop Neal from giving away his body to numb the pain of the loss of Ellen, and of Peter. 

Neal goads him and laughs into his hand when he watches the frustration color Peter’s face during their work hours. He sees the exhaustion in Peter’s eyes, and the stab wounds of emotional trauma bleeding over his expressions. Neal gathers it in like a victory and pretends it is exactly what he wanted, to hurt Peter, like Peter hurt him.

When he finds himself opening the supply closet to find Peter rifling through a cabinet, Neal pauses if only for an instant. He re-illustrates himself into the confidence man, the man hurting Peter on a daily basis. 

“Peter,” he says and smiles. His smile beguiles, he knows this, and he learned it years ago.

Peter nods with a short bow of his head. “Neal.”

“How’s the Kindergarten case?” It is a case where they are tracking the fraudulent sales of books to schools.

“Might have a lead,” Peter says and then opens a drawer. “Do you know where they keep the red pens around here?”

“Oh,” Neal says and walks into the room; the door closes behind him and clicks. He leans over and opens a lower drawer. “I think it might be in he-.”

The feel of Peter’s fingers stroking through his hair stops him. 

“You have such beautiful hair,” Peter whispers.

Neal remains frozen, the fingers dance through his locks like they strum an instrument. He swallows down the need, the want, and the growing despair. He can barely speak but he forces the word out. “Peter.”

“I know, I promised,” Peter says but does not relent on his quest to know the texture, the lightness, the curl and knot of every strand of hair. 

Neal moves but the hand threading through his hair continues, mimics his movements and follows him. 

“When I saw you on the island, your hair was free, not touched, wild.” Peter lines his fingers round the curls. “I love it like that, you know.”

“Peter,” he says again, but his resolve weakens. His heart races and his breath chokes in his lungs. His bronchi spasm and he wants nothing more than to feel, to touch, to be with this man.  
“I-I-.”

The words never finish. The thought, only a fragment in his mind, shatters as Peter pulls him into his embrace, his hands on each side of Neal’s face. The lips that once saved him, once offered him life’s breath, press into a greedy kiss. It isn’t soft or tender, but hungry and rough. He bites and Neal opens his mouth and Peter’s tongue invades his mouth. He grabs hold of Peter, and he’s moaning his pain and pleasure all at once. Peter’s hand tangle in his hair, yanking and knotting as his mouth continues to devour him. 

He inhales Peter’s breath and it is a succor from all of the anguish over the last weeks. He opens to Peter and suffers the offering, the purge of love and hurt and misery.

Neal slides his hand down Peter’s front and strokes his erection through his pants. He shoves his hand down past the belt and the waist of his pants. He grabs hold of the shaft and gives him a quick tug. Peter growls at him and bites at his lips until Neal tastes blood. He glides his mouth to the hollow of Neal’s throat and suckles until Neal hyperventilates against the torture. He groans and grasps onto Peter’s erection as Peter hisses and grabs hold of Neal’s hand on his cock. He stops him from movement, he stumbles away, holding onto his penis and panting in heavy breathes. He disentangles himself from Neal.

“No, no,” Peter says, his desperation apparent as tears glisten in his eyes. He takes a few breaths to stop himself, to ease the urge but still isn’t able to stand up in front of Neal.

“Let me,” Neal says and offers to finish the job, to relieve him.

“No, I shouldn’t have. No-.” He grimaces as he squeezes his eyes closed. He finds an equilibrium and settles a degree.

“I’m sorry,” Neal says though he doesn’t know what he apologizes for. Is it for being in the supply closet, for having beautiful hair, or for just being himself?

“No, no,” Peter repeats. It is like he cannot stop saying it and he gazes at Neal with sorrow and worry and desire. 

Neal steps back and nods. “I know, I understand.” The ache ratchets up. He can feel the residue, the memory of his facial injury throb in ghostly sympathy with his heart. He drops his eyes and stares at his shoes. “I shouldn’t have. I’ve been terrible to you, Peter.” He wants to spill all of his sins out on the floor like a flood of water. He swallows them back and the pressure builds until he has to look up and fight the tears threatening to break the dam he’s built. “I’ll stop. Stop.”

“Neal,” Peter says and the touch to the side of his face startles him.

He places his hand over Peter’s and leans into the cupped palm. “Peter.”

“Can we do this? Can we do this for two more years?” Peter asks.

The rest of the words are left unspoken. Do you want to be released from my control? Do you know once you are free, you are out of my life forever? Would going back to prison be better for you, for us?

His body trembles and he knows he’s telegraphing all of his fear to Peter.

“I wouldn’t let you go back to prison, Neal. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“I know.” The need pierces him through like a knife slicing away at his sanity. “I don’t-I don’t want to be away from you. Not yet.” He stops he doesn’t want to say the words out loud. He knows that once he speaks them, they will become true. He doesn’t want to admit that once he’s released from the bondage of the anklet, he must flee. He has no other choice.

Peter soothes the side of his face and then slips his hand into his hair once again. Neal bends down and drops his forehead onto Peter’s shoulder. The touch of Peter’s hand on him stirs his cock until it is painful and searing hot. He does nothing but stands still within Peter’s arms. 

“I love you,” Neal whispers and it sounds more like a sin than a vow.

Peter kisses Neal’s temple and murmurs in his ear. “I love you, too.” His lips brush the ridge of Neal’s ear. “Please don’t.”

Neal understands, Peter is asking him not to hurt himself with a menagerie of lovers, Peter is asking him to stay celibate for the duration of their bondage. He has no right, since he can go home to Elizabeth every night, but Neal nods in agreement.

Peter holds Neal’s face in his hands once more, leans in and with the softest touch, kisses him. It is not a promise or a blessing but a farewell. Neal covers Peter’s hands with his own and broadens the kiss, deepens it until they are both drowning until they both need to come up for air.

Peter breaks away first, gulps down a breath, and straightens his jacket, his tie, his pants, and then leaves. 

Neal watches him go, says not another word. As the door closes he staggers and falls down to the floor. Sitting with his back against the door, he lets the shade of Neal Caffrey crumble in the shadows of the supply closet. There is nothing more to be done. The unobtainable cannot be stolen or conned. For once, Neal Caffrey is defeated.


End file.
